


strip the buttons off my coat

by defcontwo



Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's had worse birthdays, probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strip the buttons off my coat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersdontlast (minigami)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minigami/gifts).



Bucky's had worse birthdays, probably. 

He spent sixteen in a jail cell. 

Spent eighteen getting shot at over a goddamn birthday cake. That was three hundred and sixty five days ago and he feels every inch older, an aching, groaning passing of the days. 

He's always known that war was hell -- you can't grow up on a series of army bases and kid yourself that it's all playing at soldiers and coming home with medals on your chest, he knew what that look in the eyes of veterans of the Great War meant when he was still all gangly limbs and skinned knees. 

He thought he was prepared, but. That was just shit stupid all over. War ain't anything you can prepare for. 

Bucky blows out a breath, running both hands through messy hair and shaking himself all over. Letting himself get all melancholy is an even bigger waste of time than this entire fucking day. He's got his feet up on the bed, boots kicked up against the footboard and Steve'd probably give him a look over it if he were here but he ain't. 

Holed up in a room at an inn in middle of fucking nowhere France is better than a jail cell, probably, and it's definitely better than getting shot at, but it's been hours and hours since Steve went out to make a rendezvous debriefing and staring at the wallpaper's starting to get a little old. 

They're supposed to be undercover, collecting intelligence on the occupying forces for the higher ups. Rumor has it that there's gonna be an Allied invasion some time soon but it feels like the higher ups've been telling 'em that for fuckin' ever and Bucky's starting to wonder if he and the Cap are gonna have to gift-wrap the Red Skull's corpse on Eisenhower's front doorstep to get anything done around here. 

The door to the room eases open and Steve slips in, nondescript civilian gear not doing enough to hide broad shoulders and that distinctive blond hair. 

"Hey Buck," Steve says, shutting the door closed with a firm click and latching it after him. "Have fun while I was gone?" 

"You're a real comedian, Rogers," Bucky says, throwing a pillow that Steve easily dodges. 

"Hey now," Steve says, holding up both hands as if in surrender. "If you're gonna be like that, Buck, maybe you won't get your present." 

"You hidin' a birthday cake beneath that coat of yours, Rogers? Now that's impressive spy work." 

Steve shakes his head before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small green bottle filled with a dark liquid that was definitely some kind of contraband. "Officially, I do not approve of this, just so we're clear if anyone asks. Happy nineteenth, Buck," Steve says, before tossing Bucky the bottle. Bucky catches it with ease, unscrewing the cap and taking a sniff before taking a small sip, wincing slightly as the liquid burns going down his throat. It's terrible stuff, whatever the fuck it is, some German liquor that he can never remember the name of but damn, does it know how to do the trick. 

"Shit, what the hell's in this stuff?" Bucky says, screwing the cap back on and setting it aside. 

"What, you don't like it?" 

Bucky shrugs. "I like it just fine but I don't like drinking alone. I'll save it for the next time we see Toro -- now there's a lightweight if I ever saw one. 'Sides, I can think of a few things that I'd rather be doing on my birthday, Rogers," Bucky says, neat and casual-like, gazing up at Steve through his lashes, feigning at coy, and this is -- this is still sort of new, this thing between them, the crossover from friends and partners to something more, something precious and furtive but so, so good, Steve a warm, reassuring weight against him in tiny, shitty tents all over the goddamn Western Front, Steve's hand slipping down the front of Bucky's fatigues and wrapping around his cock, wringing noises outta Bucky that he didn't know he was capable of, all the while Steve's looking at him like Bucky's the best fucking thing he's ever seen. 

They've got a bed, now, and it's a rare enough treat. Bucky intends to make use of it. 

"Yeah? What'd you have in mind?" Steve says, but he's already toeing off his boots, shrugging off his coat and draping it over a chair. 

"What, you want a detailed invitation, Rogers?" 

Steve hums. "Aren't you the one who's always telling me that I don't know how to have fun? Guess you'll have to teach me your ways." 

Steve settles up against him on the bed, nosing at the gap where the lapel of his coat opens up at his collarbone, revealing pale skin and dog tags, fingers reaching up to press lightly against the corner of Bucky's jaw, Steve asking permission for something Bucky's already so readily given and he feels his heart clench up in something that's equal parts fondness and exasperation. "You're unbelievable, Rogers, you know that?" Bucky says, yanking Steve up and closing the distance, Steve huffing a laugh and Bucky swallowing the sound, and this is how they work, as easy as anything -- one starts and the other finishes, always in equilibrium. 

It's a hell of a lot better than getting shot at.


End file.
